


Run, If You Will, To The Top Of The Hill

by regulsh



Category: Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunkenness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24109717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulsh/pseuds/regulsh
Summary: Richard fidgets, unsure how to put into words why he went to Taron in the first place, why he couldn’t go it alone. “People will say yes if you ask.”“Oh, please,” Taron laughs. “Like anybody would dream of saying no to you.”Richard shakes his head a little. “I don’t think you’re right about that.” ::24 hours, in summer.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Comments: 26
Kudos: 104





	Run, If You Will, To The Top Of The Hill

**_6:39 PM PST_ **

House parties, even in stunning mid-century-modern lofts in West Hollywood like this one, are awful.

It is August, it is suffocatingly hot, and there are too many people for Richard’s liking. Despite the crowd, the house still feels empty. Overlarge, ostentatiously spacious. The thick heat of the day persists, stifling even at this hour; the dog days wearing on, sluggish and sweaty. He’s been here for an hour, maybe two, but it feels like an eternity. Looped into the same conversations he doesn’t want to have, with strangers-or-maybe-acquaintances he doesn’t know. An endless day, in an endless hot summer, in a city where _summer_ itself never really stops. Even the sun has nowhere to go just yet, still loitering well above the horizon.

Richard fishes a beer from a near-empty cooler on the ground, ice water shocking him up to the wrist. It drips meanly down his bare arm when he shakes it loose. A couple people he likes are here, Luke and Matt and Taron and Dan, but he’s caught up with all of them already. (Taron practically leaps on Luke, then catches sight of Richard and gives him a booming _there you are!_ and a warm full bodied hug and smooch, face sun-kissed and stubbly.) The twee batch cocktail Richard drank from a leaky pitcher has worn off already, sweated it out; hopefully the beer helps where it failed. Though truthfully, he already feels too drunk, bizarrely light-headed and unsteady as he steps out to the balcony, dodging clutches of people. Fresh air is bound to help.

The balcony faces the scrubby Hollywood hills, rolling out from the house. The landscape in the evening sun looks painted, unreal, even shimmering in the distance from the heat. It’s sparse and dry, no match for the cool green embraces of the Glaswegian foothills. Still, Richard grips the railing tight. He hasn’t lived here too long; the novelty of the sight still captures him. It’s almost too easy to imagine stepping off the balcony, clean out into the air, into the hills, walking out in the distance and sending it all behind him with each step. The effort required to force himself to keep making the rounds, wedge his way into another awkward exchange, seems insurmountable.

He just hates house parties.

He sighs, puts down his beer, feeling unquestionably lonely and adrift. Wishes desperately for an instant that he was home, sheltered in a dimly lit pub with a pint instead of baking in the L.A. sunshine in a stranger’s house. The railing creaks as he leans on it. It occurs to him that he could just leave; find a way to escape right here, right now. Even though it might be rude, to ditch early, or make him seem ungrateful, and then he’d burn his social circle and they’d hate him and gossip behind his back and he wouldn’t be invited to any more parties whether he liked it or not. 

Richard chews his lip, thinking. He just needs an accomplice.

He turns back to survey the party, assessing, and almost immediately his eyes alight on Taron in the crowd. Conversing happily and beaming, entirely at ease; who better. They’ve been texting every so often since filming, keeping up and chatting like they always did, and Richard had smiled when his phone pinged last night: _See you tomorrow x_. A grainy photo from a plane window, L.A. glittering from the sky with glowing, winding arteries. He’d replied: _Can you see me? I’m waving._

Richard fairly marches over to him and tugs Taron away from his conversation with a brief glance and an apology. “Listen, we’re going out to the bars.”

“We are?! Oh, fantastic.” Richard instantly relaxes at Taron's ease, feeling foolish that he was ever anxious. It could be as easy as that. “Who’s all going?”

“I… have a solid coalition of like-minded individuals.” 

Taron pauses. Nods sharply. “So just me, then.”

“More or less,” Richard allows, and watches him laugh at that.

“Alright. Well, you know I’m in. I’d like to spend time with you,” Taron says easily. “It’s been too long.”

“A shame,” Richard replies, feeling guilty. “Would you help me?”

Taron blinks at that. Richard fidgets, unsure how to put into words why he went to Taron in the first place, why he couldn’t go it alone. “People will say yes if you ask.”

“Oh, please,” Taron laughs. “Like anybody would dream of saying no to you.”

Richard shakes his head a little. “I don’t think you’re right about that.” That same lonely feeling, seizing him.

“Nonsense.” Claps Richard on the back. “Come on.”

They ask around, lay the groundwork; in the end it’s not an escape but _a brilliant idea, absolutely, yes_. (Taron wrapped a firm, familiar arm around his shoulder as they went to leave and said _See, perfect! Shall we?_ ) About twenty people end up splitting off from the party, piling into rideshares. The evening is warm and Richard is too, the slightest buzz going already, enjoying the pressed-close heat of Taron next to him in the car, the loud conversation, whizzing off to a crowded place to do god knows what.

**_7:53 PM PST_ **

Space is tight in the beer garden they end up in, but everyone manages to squeeze into two tables under a sprawling vine-woven trellis, magically right near the bar. Richard nominates himself to ferry drinks and Taron grabs his arm, moans, “You’re a _saint_. I’ll save you a seat.”

It’s heartily communal and casual in a busy, cheery way. Patrons roam, girls in strappy dresses and guys in breezy button-downs but floral patterns abounding either way. All incredibly stylish, still, even in the face of coiffed curls frizzing, hair pomade melting in the heat. Sandals smack the pavement as people hustle drinks to their friends; fizzy spritzes splashed in sweating jars, heavy mugs of frothing beer. The roiling buzz of the crowd relaxes Richard, oddly, makes him more in the mood to enjoy himself. He wants to eat oranges with his hands, tilt his face to the sun, drink it all in.

After the first round Richard goes back and gets stuck at the bar, crowded and waiting on refills, caught up talking to a stranger squeezed in at his elbow. “Oh my god, your _voice_ ,” the guy laughs, and Richard takes a long sip.

He gets drawn into conversation despite himself, and maybe it’s the drinks, maybe it’s the blurry haze of heat, but he feels himself chatting generously, smiling, _flirting_ as the man continues to do it right back. No stakes, just an easy back and forth, engaging in a well-known rhythm with an unknown party. Doesn’t hurt that they guy is tan, and gorgeous.

Richard hears a familiar voice come from behind him: “Can you get three of the Kölsch? They want—” Taron asks, and stops short. “Sorry.” Richard turns to Taron, as the guy flies back to his friend group with a promise to return. “Thought you might want an extra pair of hands.”

“Yeah, sure.” Edges around to make room for Taron to cram beside him, get an arm on the bar.

“He’s fit,” Taron comments once the guy is out of earshot, slipping his sunglasses in the neck of his tee.

“Stop it,” Richard replies, automatically.

He chances a look; Taron is—grinning, eyebrows raised, all good humor. Richard raises his eyebrows in turn. Makes Taron add a fourth beer to his tab.

Feels weird, Taron seeing him flirting with someone. Like getting caught with his pants down, someone seeing something that they shouldn’t. He can’t work out, with a twisting sort of confusion, why it makes him uncomfortable. It shouldn’t feel strange, no reason to, just—it’s just the general weirdness of a friend seeing you in that sort of mode, he supposes.

The beers come and Taron grabs them, slides Richard’s to him as he hooks his shades back on his face, flicks sweat off his shining cheekbone. “I’d say good luck, but you’ve never needed it a day in your life.”

Richard bites the inside of his lip, fighting a smile as Taron walks off. They guy returns and fixes Richard with a frank stare. “What are you up to tonight?”

Richard sees Taron return to their table, throw his head back and laugh, the setting sun flashing off his frames. 

“I’m out with friends,” Richard apologises, and tries to make it sound as final as possible.

He relents, “Well, let me know if you change your mind,” and slides Richard a business card, eugh, with a wink. Richard watches him saunter off, and very much hopes he enjoys the fantasy of their perfect meeting in his head for later.

The group shuffles as he makes his way back, sliding into a seat next to Taron, who slings his arm around him.

“Back so soon? Struck out, did you?”

“Ah, no, we just had a quickie in the bathroom.”

“Richard!” Taron’s eyes flash wide, faux-scandalized. 

“I think it’ll be a June wedding.”

“Idiot.” As Taron lifts his glass his dopey grin lingers, still chuckling, and Richard feels an answering thrill of satisfaction. They can laugh; nothing weird about it, even though Richard’s heart is beating too quick in his chest. The sun is still strong, slicking the back of his neck with sweat, the crease of his elbows; he sets down his beer in exchange for a glass of water.

They finish the round and their party decides to head out to the next place. Everyone filters out, leaving their tables for others, impatiently circling, who quickly take them up. Some in their crowd leave for the night but more cars are ordered to take the rest to another bar, and Richard steps away for a smoke as they wait. It’s twilight, finally, the sky brushed pale purple and lights starting to flick on from timers, night beginning to settle over the city.

By the time Richard rejoins everyone, an argument has broken out. The few of them left realise that they miscounted, and five people are left waiting for the sedan that shows up.

“Eh, we’ll make do,” Taron says with a wave of his hand, carefree. He chats to the driver while people slide in, and jogs around to face Richard, on the outside, as he’s about to get in last.

“Fuck it,” Taron dismisses, and climbs in on top of Richard. As the door shuts, Taron shifts awkwardly in the little space that they have to face him. 

“I’ll sit on your lap, but you just have to promise not to fall in love with me,” Taron says seriously.

Richard rolls his eyes and replies, “Not a problem.” He can feel his cheeks are flushed as Taron squirms back around; there are a lot of people in the car and it’s already stuffy. He fishes for the window switch.

Blessedly, the driver doesn’t comment on their arrangement as he pulls away from the curb. The weight of Taron on top of Richard is heavy, but not uncomfortably so. Richard fidgets to loop his arms around Taron’s middle. “Seat belt,” he mutters. Taron pats his forearms, and after a moment, wraps his own over top.

The car rocks as they drive, Richard pleasantly lulled by the clench and give and shift of Taron’s torso under his arms, just tipsy enough to enjoy the motion. The Santa Ana breeze is cooling as it rushes through the window. Richard rests his heavy head in between Taron’s shoulder blades, and _oh_ what a good idea that was, a perfect crook for his forehead. He nestles closer and lets out a sigh. Taron’s shirt is sticking a little to his damp back, but he smells clean and so good and a little sweaty—

A jolt in the road wakes him, dislodges him, and Richard sits upright.

**_10:13 PM PST_ **

They are well on their way to being cheerfully plastered, and yelling over each other, and someone shouts, _“Tequila shots—!”_

Richard cheers before he feels a hand grip his elbow, Taron commanding, “ _No_ , dangerous waters,” as he steers them both to the bathroom. Richard slops a little of his drink on his hand and sets it down before he obliges, lets himself be led.

“Come on,” Richard gripes halfheartedly.

“Too early for tequila. I don’t want to end up on the floor in an hour,” Taron announces as the door swings shut behind them. Richard goes to the sink to rinse his hands off, grumbling. With the sounds of the bar muted, trapped just beyond the door, it’s like being submerged underwater, everything calmed and slow-motion in the silence.

Richard washes his hands, chafing at being rushed away for no reason. Although, he thinks with a sinking sort of feeling, he’s not—too drunk, is he? More than he realized? Acting foolish, Taron rescuing him? His eyes slide away, as Taron leans on the sink next to his.

Before he can stop himself, Richard asks, “Are you having a good time?”

“Yeah, of course.” Tapping out a drumbeat on the sink. “Why?”

Richard sighs. “I don’t know, I dragged everyone out here—”

Taron frowns. “No you didn’t. They wanted to come—”

“—and I feel responsible—”

“It’s not about _you_ ,” Taron says, and he’s laughing when he says it.

“Yeah,” Richard says hollowly.

Taron catches it, sighs, “Jesus, Dickie—”

“It’s fine,” Richard says shortly, but before he can turn away hands catch his face, hold him in place.

“I’m having a great time. With _you_ ,” Taron insists, with a bob of his head. Purposefully careful pronunciation, too much boozy intention. Richard’s hands are still wet, dangling uselessly at his side. Taron’s palms are secure and warm on either side of Richard’s face, almost as warm as his eyes, vague but gazing at Richard intently, like he desperately wants to make him understand. That he’s not a total cock-up, he guesses.

Richard shifts a little. “Okay.” Wraps one arm around Taron in an aborted hug, suddenly very important to have him close.

“Okay?” Taron chuckles, dropping his hands. Richard steps back, shuffling.

“You probably saved me. ‘Bout the tequila,” Richard offers, heading to the urinal. Anything for a little space to breathe.

“Intelligence. Reasoning. Strategy,” Taron declares, slumping, stabbing the air with a finger.

Richard chuckles. “Sure, you’re the boss. Stable as a table right now.”

“This city has made you weak,” Taron continues to muse, ignoring him. Richard half-laughs, bewildered. “We’ve got to get back, have a proper pub afternoon.”

“Why did you drag me in here,” Richard says, exasperated. “Just to yell at me?”

“S’pose I just want you all to myself, huh?” Taron’s still leaned against the sink, grinning but—not disengaging. Like he’s waiting for some sort of response. The open anticipation of it makes Richard break first, turn away. He can’t assess the tone of his voice, can’t parse anything that’s happening. Doesn’t know how to respond. 

Richard moans, “Please don’t talk to me right now,” as he hangs his head, fumbles with his zipper. 

Taron is silent for a moment. “Whatever you want,” he says, and swoops out the door, and Richard is left pissing alone and strangely sad about that fact.

**_12:47 PM PST_ **

Crowded, sweaty clubs aren’t quite Richard’s thing. Or, more truthfully, they aren’t his thing anymore. Haven't been for a while; maybe it’s just a fact of getting older. He feels very far away from this sort of scene, from reveling in his hot-blooded youth, following his every instinctive desire no matter where it took him. Doing whatever he felt like, and damn the consequences. He’s too mature for that now.

But okay, there are tequila shots _here_ , but it was one of those deals where you get a pitcher and a tray with all the things prepared, and it was too good to pass up.

The shaggy crowd slices apart to allow Taron through, who shuffle-steps hoisting two beers. He reaches the table, lifts the bottom of his shirt to wipe his sweaty brow like a long-suffering traveler. Richard grabs for the beer he’s handed, his mouth dry. They clink and drink: “Cheers,” Richard says, for the favor, as a toast.

Taron tilts his head towards the ten or so of their friends that made it onto the dance floor. “Come on.”

Richard gamely grimaces. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on. It’s not dancing. We’re just going to wiggle.”

“Oh, well that’s fine, then. I’m an excellent wiggler. Trained.”

“I knew it,” Taron crows, loud and bright-cheeked, and leads them into the crush of bodies.

Richard follows, of course. That blind optimism; Taron could have him do just about anything. Make skydiving seem like a lark.

The humming energy and jostle of the crowd energizes Richard as it swallows them in. They’re a mixed group tonight so it’s not precisely a gay bar, but the vibe and crowd are adjacent enough, clubby and loose and loud. Richard’s fine with that as it is; he meant it when he said it to the guy at the beer garden, that tonight is about just mates, everyone hanging out together. He doesn’t want to—conflate anything.

Beyoncé from ten years ago and Avicii and Rihanna insist that they dance, so they do. Richard bops along in their little clutch of people, grateful to be as tipsy as he is, before a slower, sexier song fades in, bass slinging and snapping as the lights swivel. People are still screaming out the lyrics as heartily as the fast songs. Richard’s having a good time, despite himself; lets himself slide into the thrall of this sort of thing, remembers why he likes it.

That is, until a dude in a shirt with more holes than fabric gets too close, carrying several drinks, pushing past them and knocking square into Richard. 

“Oi,” Taron calls after him, yanking Richard forward, while the guy is already gone. Taron’s arm locks tight around Richard’s back.

Richard catches himself, getting a hold of Taron’s hip with his hand. Taron clutches Richard closer still, looking over his shoulder, annoyed.

Richard holds his hand at Taron’s hip as Taron continues to—wiggle, seemingly oblivious. The crowd swarms, people swirling in eddies around them in the guy’s wake, keeping them pressed together. The solid snug heat of Taron’s body lines up against his own, his broad chest solid as Richard leans on him unsteadily. Breaths from Taron’s mouth puff against his ear; he can feel it unmistakably even with the crush of people, even with the air thick and humid all around them. 

Richard palms Taron more firmly, maps his hand around Taron’s waist to his back. Holds him for another moment too long, clutching thin fabric over muscle, before letting go against his will as the crowd sways back.

Taron gives him a little hip bump, lets go, and that’s it. No recognition that anything just happened. But Richard—

Richard didn’t want to stop touching him.

The urge is so strong, so seductive, in the truest sense of the word, that it shocks him. Richard wants to fall into it, the dark room and bright changing lights and loud music, the sweet liquid high in his chest and brain. The relative anonymity, the club dissolving all the elements of themselves except _themselves_ , securing his hand around Taron’s waist and notching his head in his neck and letting his body move however he fucking wanted with his.

Richard flees instead, stumbles to the bathroom. Thinking with his stupid fucking dick and not his head, fuck. What the fuck.

By some good fortune the single little bathroom is unoccupied. Richard splashes water on his face, rattles the empty dispenser before shaking his hands dry. The plastic mirror is warped and beaten, his reflection wiggling back at him. He presses the cool backs of his hands to his cheeks until the distorted image looks less red.

When he comes out, Taron is there. Leaning against the wall, ostensibly waiting, but when Richard exits Taron doesn’t make a move to go around him into the bathroom. The small hallway is empty, and Richard has half a mind to pull him backwards into the room and—

“What’re you doing?” Richard asks instead.

“Hm?” Taron’s eyes go lidded, and fuck, fuck, Richard is so fucked.

Richard gestures to the door behind him.

“Ah. Right. I… forgot.” Taron nods at it once, then stops himself. “I am... drunk,” he announces.

“So’m I,” Richard says.

And it’s that fact that keeps them standing there, doing nothing, saying nothing. Is it? Richard desperately tries to clear his mind, settle his thoughts, but the alcohol invites them to linger, sitting curled around his brain, burning in his belly. He can’t stop staring at Taron. He can play at it, sure, but Richard never really thought himself the predatory type, suave and domineering. Something about Taron, though, lights that fire in him. The dishevelled collar of his white tee, his bright knowing eyes, makes Richard want to crowd him against the wall, scent him like an animal. Lean in and _bite_. 

No sooner does the thought occur than Richard exhales forcefully, as if trying to release it. 

Taron’s gaze grows serious. “Alright? Want to head back?”

“Yeah,” Richard says weakly.

Everyone crowds around a too-small table to yell across it at each other, and Richard’s squashed next to Taron, nearly sharing a stool.

Boldly, smoothly, Richard curls a hand over Taron’s knee, feeling crazy and high with it. He doesn’t look at Taron, just holds him there, proprietary, shifts his thumb every so often. Pretends like it’s every day he does this. It feels so daring, like Richard might as well have planted a kiss on him on the middle of the dance floor. It feels good.

For long minutes he thinks Taron hasn’t even noticed, still holding a conversation across the table, until Taron reaches into the middle and steals two shots, setting one in front of Richard. Taron unwraps Richard’s hand from his leg and he goes to worm it back, abruptly resigned. But Taron keeps a hold of it.

Taron lifts Richard’s hand to his mouth, casual. Licks at the juncture of his thumb and pointer, shakes some salt over it, and seals his mouth there again to lick it up. It’s incredibly perfunctory and methodical, even as Taron's a little sloppy with his tongue, even as salt skitters on the table. Slowly Richard’s hand slackens, fingers twitching, as Taron laps against his skin, just for a moment, before he drops it. His hand thuds against the table as Taron chases it with a shot, neck stretched long, head tipped back. 

The hot, wet writhe of Taron’s tongue on his skin. Richard almost laughs, would laugh, if he wasn’t also desperately trying to suppress the wave of arousal rising in him. What are they, fucking seventeen again? Getting pissed on shitty booze, in shittier clubs? Taking any flimsy excuse of the environment, the liquor, to touch each other? 

That was what Richard did around that age, anyway. He didn’t know Taron then. He would have liked to.

Richard sips at the shot that Taron put in front of him. Twitches his thumb on the table. Watches the spot, still wet with saliva, shine under the lights.

People start making noises about leaving.

“One more?” Taron asks, turned to him, and his face is right there.

Richard lets out a shivery breath.

**_2:56 AM PST_ **

Just around the corner, Taron swears, is a bar he’s been to before. They peel out of the club, down the street, the night now moving both fast and slow; Richard blinks and they’re the only two people left from their group, standing on the sidewalk.

“I’ll get a spot,” Taron tells him.

“Yeah, gimme a moment,” Richard says, and pulls out a cig while Taron goes inside. He exhales the hot smoke into the hotter night air, made dense and dark by the swelter. People swarm in and out of nearby buildings, Richard regarding them, the swirling amoeba-like interactions of sloshed partiers out on the street. It’s a clear night, people drifting and calling out to each other, making immediate friends and immediate enemies, then almost as quickly forgotten. Richard leans against the huge plate glass windows of the bar behind him; too dark to see the interior, but he imagines the people inside are doing just what he is: observing the night, with their vice of choice. 

One small group swings by and a guy steps back as the rest head in, lingering next to Richard. He has a scruffy beard, stylish in a greasy sort of way. Sunglasses propped on his nose, still, at this hour. “Got a light?”

Richard pulls out his lighter to hand it over, but the guy already has a cigarette between his lips and leans in coyly, expectant. Richard presses his lips together and flicks it on for him.

The guy inhales, and blows a thin stream just past Richard’s face, maintaining eye contact. Props a hand next to him on the window, leaning in close. “What’s your story?”

Richard keeps a straight face. Barely. “Don’t have one, really.”

The man’s eyes flash with interest. “ _Ohhh_ , you’re not from here. Wait, don’t tell me—”

“I won’t,” Richard says mildly, low. Tired; he would pack it in here any other night if not for something tugging in his gut, thrumming under his skin. Calling to him. He stubs out his cig, only half-smoked. Says with a nod, “Have a good night,” and picks his way around him, looking disappointed, to open the door.

And inside—

Inside, the bar is wood panelled from the floor to the ceiling, cozy and deep-smelling, like stepping into a cigar box. On the walls there’s flocked wallpaper and framed vintage film posters, warm dim lights, multiple candles on every worn and varnished table, absurdly romantic and intimate. Hushed, especially compared to the echo of the club still thudding in his head. 

Richard forges his way forward, peers through the fingers of light to see Taron sat at the rear bar, shrouded in near-darkness. Joins him as he stashes the cig box in his pocket.

Taron glances at it, tuts at him. “Naughty Dickie. That’s why I kept losing track of you.”

“Ah, but at least you were keeping track of me.”

“Someone has to,” Taron responds. Inscrutable; taking a long sip from his lowball.

There’s an identical one set out for Richard; they have the same taste, usually. Songs gently reverberate from the jukebox, an honest-to-god jukebox, glowing in the corner, _leavin’ me lonely still._ The music is almost pointedly low, conversations bubbling at a murmur, softening the edges of everything. Richard sets his eyes on Taron. “Thanks for the drink.”

Taron smacks his lips as he sets his own down. “No problem. Least I can do.”

“You bought at the last place too,” Richard insists. “I owe you.”

“Not at all,” Taron replies, firm.

Richard has the distinct sensation of grasping at straws, scrabbling at the hard shell that Taron has suddenly. “I don’t know when I’m gonna see you again to return the favor,” Richard says feebly.

“Well that’s life, I suppose, isn’t it,” Taron sighs. Richard doesn’t know what to say to that. Definitely doesn’t say, _If you were here, it’d be easier_.

Taron relents, knocks a hand against the stool next to him. Richard obeys, sits. “How are you finding it here? We haven’t really— How is it?”

Hot. Strange. “Not bad. How’s things back home?” Richard asks after Taron instead.

They get to have the catch up they’ve missed out on all night. Richard describing the ups and downs of moving, Taron filling him in on the wild ride of the promotional train (“I’ve just been, y’know, going it alone,” Taron says staunchly, and Richard’s heart squeezes, bangs in his chest with acute sympathy at his soft hollow voice, the look on his face). It feels extraordinarily good to just _talk_ , genuine interest in each other, each other’s lives. Tracing back through work, filming that thing, recording that bit, until—

“—and that happened right after we finished.”

“Wow. That’s right.” Taron nods, sighs a little. “Seems like ages ago.”

“We had a hell of a time,” Richard reminisces. 

“We did, didn’t we,” Taron says. Still a little distant.

Richard sits, twisting his glass, and remembers. Long days and late nights, seeing each other more than the insides of their own eyelids. Richard showing up thrilled out of his mind to film, more thrilled to see what outrageous thing he could say or do to make a smile break across Taron’s face while he worked himself to the bone. Feeling wild, giddy like a kid who gets to see his best mate on the playground every day. Playing his part, as the whole operation zoomed around him, charging forward, steaming ahead with Taron atop it; until his very last day, when he was no longer needed, and said a quick _see you around_ to Taron before escaping and driving off set for the last time. Without a proper goodbye.

They’ve texted every so often since then, kept up and chatted like they always did. But.

“I think about it all the time,” Richard admits. Now it’s his turn to sound distant, and lost.

Taron is silent. Concedes, “I thought you hated me at first.”

“Impossible,” Richard whispers.

“ _Ha-ted-me_.” Taron speaks over him, banging the bar a little too hard for emphasis. Laughs, a little harshly. “To be fair, that could still be the case,” he says, abruptly flippant. “You haven’t told me otherwise. I could just be a sorry hanger-on to your fabulous life. That guy you used to know.”

The words hit Richard like a body blow, out of nowhere. Weak, almost winded from the sheer strength of it, Taron’s bitter tone. 

“Is that what you think?” Richard asks, pained. 

Taron shrugs, once.

“There’s no end to me fucking up, is there,” he moans. Taron’s hand is curled into a fist, clenching oddly; Richard takes it, unfurls his fingers and presses his hand flat to the bar.

“I don’t hate you,” Richard says, despairing. “I like you. Too much. So glad to see you, I’ve been so—” He heaves a breath. “You’ve ruined me for other people.” 

Tries to lift his tone by the end of it, say it to Taron lightly, like a joke. Aware that it feels too much like cracking his heart open in his hands like a pomegranate and showing it to Taron: _Is this alright? Is this any good?_

Taron, after a moment, lays his hand over Richard’s on his, a clumsy sandwich. “Okay. Good.” Shakes his head forcefully, after a moment. “If it’s any consolation, I had a great time ruining you.” 

Richard snorts, and just like that they’re giggling, stifling a fit in the muted atmosphere. Richard’s shoulders fall, something loosening in his stomach. Taron’s still creased up, laughing overlong, way past the end of the proper moment, like he always does with Richard. Like Richard amuses him to no end.

The song has changed over, a singer crooning about _the moon’s yellow haze._ Taron sets his elbow on the bar, props up his head, smiling at Richard with an entirely stupid face. Richard snickers just looking at him. “Tell me a secret.”

“What,” Richard laughs. 

Taron doesn’t respond, just stares at him, expectant. “Like what,” Richard asks, uncertain. Like he’s never had a thought in his life before.

“Like anything,” Taron prompts. Then, suddenly: “Why’d you move here.”

“Work, like anyone. Plenty have,” Richard explains.

Taron’s mouth twists. “Yeah, but I’m not asking them. I’m asking you.”

“Alright,” Richard concedes. “I—” his voice sticks in his throat. Tries again. “I’ve done a fair job splitting my time, but, you know…” He trails off, all at once unsure how to finish the thought. Turns to his glass, resigned. He could rattle off any old thing to an acquaintance, a reporter, but it seems harder to justify it to Taron somehow. Tricker. 

Works his jaw a moment. “I’ve got something here,” Richard finally says, helpless, despondent. Chasing some ineffable something, shimmering like the hills.

Taron snorts. “I bet.” Sarcastic, really, but it feels uncharacteristically unkind.

Richard takes a long drink. “Not as much as I used to, though.”

The bar is clinking along at a low rush. It’s quiet enough to hear Taron open his mouth, then close it. “Shit. Sorry.”

“S’alright. For the best.”

“I just. I m—” Taron says, then shakes his head. “Ridiculous.” he mutters to himself. “S’just. It’s not the same, here. Is it?”

“I’m not dead. I’m over there all the time,” Richard laughs. Taron doesn’t.

It’s suddenly very hard for Richard to get an arm around what he’s feeling, precisely, much less articulate it. He can’t think, weary from a long night, alcohol making his tongue unintelligent and slow.

“I do. Miss it,” Richard offers. Taron is still quiet.

Richard speaks to his glass, slowly, carefully. “And honestly. It’s nice to have something I can escape to, too.” 

Shakes his head: “Not... escape, but. Something I can go back to.” His mind is blurry, a sea of feeling. “Something real, that I— that I know.” 

Richard watches Taron’s eyes, the depths of which are fathomless. _Come out of your half-dreamed dream_ , the jukebox serenades.

Taron drains the last of his drink. Richard copies him.

Taron takes a deep inhale, and says, “Let’s go home.” 

**_4:06 AM PST_ **

They’re a decent walk from Richard’s, but not too far, and so they decide to do it, sober up a bit. Richard lights up as they walk and Taron steals his cig every so often ( _You can have your own_ , Richard insists for the tenth time. _No no no, I’m off it_ , Taron says blithely, as he takes a deep satisfying drag). They brush shoulders as they walk, relaxed. Streetlights buzz above them as they dip between pools of sodium light, not really talking, mostly just companionable silence. 

Their lips, touching on the cigarette paper alone. 

Richard imagines kissing him. 

All the signposts are there, like any normal hookup, but this is the furthest thing from normal he could ever imagine. It’s Taron, his mate, his fucking _co-worker_ ; impossible for anything to happen. And yet, it doesn’t seem to matter one bit in the burning core of Richard’s brain, which is pulsing with the molten thought of _touch him_. 

Taron smelling like Richard’s own brand of cigs. His tongue, wet with the whisky they both drank. 

It sucker punches him with desire, uncontrollable, a yawning pit inside him. Most terrifying of all, the lurking thought he can’t shake, is the potential that he misread everything. He’s been living on Mars this whole time, and tonight could only ever end with Taron waving cheerfully and disappearing into the night. 

And it makes him feel dizzy, to imagine kissing him, because it’s _Taron_ , not some random stranger he picked up towards a known end. Taron, who he’s spent more days with than his family in the past year. Who he once saw brim over with tears at a video titled _Unlikely Animal Friendship!!! Quackers and Taffy the Dog Compilation [HD]_. (He remembers the title because he made fun of Taron mercilessly on set, then went home that night and watched it, then bookmarked it.) Taron, who texts him selfies from his travels to check in. Sends him stupid laddish memes because he knows Richard likes them. Same text, every time: _Made me think of you Xxx_.

To kiss Taron, to be with him, is impossible to imagine. But it hits Richard out of nowhere, faint with the realization, that he doesn’t quite need to imagine it so much as remember it. Already, in a way, knows. The feel of Taron’s naked body, what his mouth tastes like. He spent a day kissing him, shifting under him, Taron moving in a facsimile of pleasure. Thought nothing of it, at the time; was determined to think nothing of it. 

But now, months later, he wants the real thing. Wants to know what Taron looks like, what sounds he makes, what his mouth will taste like. 

(At the time it tasted like spearmint, impersonal and clean. Tonight it would taste like cigarettes, and whisky, and he wants so badly to discover the rest.)

Richard has no idea what to do. He turns the key in his door and leads them both inside, clicks it shut and turns around.

Taron is standing so close behind him, a breath away. 

“I want to kiss you,” Taron says. 

Oh. 

Yes. “Yes,” he breathes, in the smallest span of time, inhaling the space that closes as Taron’s mouth finds his. 

Taron backs him into the door with a sharp _bang_ but his mouth is so soft, kissing him sweetly, languidly. Unhurried. Richard was prepared for a rush-and-shove job against any surface but Taron curls both his hands gently around Richard’s jaw, just like how he cradled his face in the bar. Holding Richard in place, like he wants to be exact. Like Taron wants to be focused precisely on kissing him. 

Richard holds him in turn, cradling the sharp cut of his hips, sliding firm over the small of his back, delirious with the freedom to touch him. Taron’s mouth is generous and soft against his. It feels direct in a way that’s almost scary, not the sloppy affair he was envisioning, but a tentative, tender overture. More than anything Richard feels an urgent sense of relief, sighing into Taron’s mouth, a consummation of every half-formed and avoided thought, every instinctual desire he’s suppressed tonight. 

And why did he insist on suppressing it, second-guessing it? Why run from it, when he could have this? Taron nudging close, slotting his thigh in between Richard’s that are already falling open for him. Taron’s neck, tilting in anticipation even before Richard pulls away to suck a brief kiss there. It’s astonishing, how in tune they are in the midst of this fervent, blooming thing, like their heartbeats are synchronized.

Taron tastes like cigarettes, and whisky, and hot sun-warmed skin, breathed into his mouth and pressed into Richard’s tongue with his.

Gently, Taron’s fingers trace over Richard’s neck. He can feel his own pulse flutter under the light touch. Richard can only let himself be kissed, shivering, holding him with careful hands as Taron kisses him with serious intent, heavily. The soft swipe of his tongue makes heat rise in Richard, just as the aircon kicks on and whirs, sending goosebumps along his arms.

Taron crowds closer, his whole body flush against Richard’s. Richard sends his hands under Taron’s clothes, flattens his palms to his skin. Taron’s so _warm_ , radiating the heat suffused into his skin from the day. The dull weight of him in counterpoint with his careful, precise mouth makes Richard weak. Taron kissing him just like Taron does everything else: thoughtful, and intense.

Richard pulls away gently, dizzily, with a soft smack. He’s speechless, can only stare at Taron a moment before he finds his voice.

“Come with me.”

The bed creaks as they land on it, Richard pulling Taron on top of him, wanting to feel all of him where his skin is flushed-hot, which is everywhere. Taron tugs Richard’s tee over his head and sighs happily once it’s free. “Gorgeous,” Taron pronounces with a sigh, and leans down to place a smacking kiss on his furred pec, right over his heart.

Taron doesn’t stop there, stretching out Richard’s limbs and holding him in place. Nuzzling, nosing close as Richard bares his neck for him. Growls a little as he kisses, bites along Richard’s collarbone, and Richard gasps at a particularly sharp nip.

“Hey—”

Taron only bites at him more sharply, a little frantic; Richard’s hand finds his head. Taron won’t stop moving, rutting against him and burying his face in his chest.

“ _Taron—_ ”

Taron wrenches his mouth away. “I’ve been pretending,” he pants against Richard in a rush. Hands squeezing at his shoulders.

That draws Richard up short. “What?”

“I’ve been pretending that this is gonna happen all night, thinking about it. And now it actually _is_.” Taron sits back, rakes his hands through his own hair. “But I didn’t really know, I didn’t— Jesus, Rich, you have gorgeous guys coming up to you just _standing there_ —”

“What do you mean?” Richard’s brain is miles away from wherever Taron’s is right now.

It takes him a second. “...You saw that,” Richard realizes, slowly. “Outside, at the bar. That was... less than nothing, that was—”

Taron’s still rambling. “And I mean, you were busy putting the moves on Stripe Shirt Bad Hair, and—”

“Who?” Richard asks, genuinely confused.

“I dunno his name. At the...” Taron squints. “...first place. Fuck. I don’t remember. You were chatting him up,” Taron explains, brow furrowed, as Richard rolls him over, pressing useless kisses against the thin displeased line of his mouth.

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” Richard breathes against his lips.

“You’ve never put the moves on _me_ ,” Taron says plainly, miserably. 

Richard falters, stops.

Taron's voice is soft. “How was I supposed to know?” 

Richard rears back to look at him, unbelieving. 

Then—grinds down against him once, to make a point. “Are you seriously complaining right now?”

“Might be.” Taron grins at him.

And all at once they’re both smiling, grinning at each other like a pair of loons. They’re both softened, made stupid and tired by the booze, the late hour. 

The exhaustion swirls all Richard’s thoughts down the drain, leaving only honesty behind. “Fuck, I didn’t know,” Richard admits. “I didn’t. I couldn’t— how could I. Possibly, I mean.” It hits him, the reality of this, like surfacing from deep underwater; he’s lying in his bed with Taron, kissing him like they’ve done it all their lives. “This is crazy.”

“No, it’s not,” Taron says immediately, groping his arse and diving in for another hungry kiss. Richard laughs into his mouth, unbidden, pulled into another assault that leaves him gasping for air. Taron’s hips lift against his, seeking, and the hardness he feels there makes Richard groan into Taron’s mouth.

“How was I supposed to know that _you_ meant any of it?” Richard counters, breathless. “Flirting with me, all night.”

“I wasn’t,” Taron protests, even as his flush deepens.

But Taron meant it, all of it, of course. It occurs to Richard only now. Of course. He had been _telling_ Richard all night. Why did Richard want so badly to run from it, to hide around the corner from what he really wanted? 

He’s been stupidly lucky his entire life, stumbled into every good fortune he’s ever had and tried his best to meet it with hard work and as much grace as he could muster. He counts this as one more bit of luck, now. 

Taron had been telling Richard all night. All of Richard’s stumbling, his evasion, his inability to face his desires; there’s someone who cuts through it all. Who removes the blinders he put on himself. Who faces him and says, _I’d like to spend time with you. I’m having a good time with you. I want to kiss you._

He’s lucky Taron was brave, deliberate with it. Richard hadn’t had the fucking guts. Struggling and useless all night, maybe longer. Taron made it easy.

But also, that meant—

That meant Taron knew exactly what he wanted. All this time. While Richard was busy hiding from himself—

“You knew,” Richard breathes into Taron’s mouth. He shifts over Taron again, ruts down against him, the sensation flying up Richard’s spine like a spark and it all melds together, fuels him.

“Taron.” Richard’s voice is so low. “You knew.” Richard ducks his head and bites Taron’s neck, making him whine. 

Murmurs there: “You’re a fucking horrible flirt.” Sucks an open-mouthed kiss over it. “And a worse liar.”

“I don’t—”

“You knew,” Richard repeats, emboldened by his rush of clarity. Suddenly, now, he can’t shut his mouth. “Couldn’t wait to get into bed with me, wanted this all night, did whatever you could to be with me.” Richard feels Taron’s body surge under his, a noise building, vibrating in his throat under his mouth. 

“You wanted me alone, wanted to put your mouth on me, kiss me. Hoping I would do something, wanting me to touch you.”

Taron twists, hands grabbing, “ _Please—_ "

Richard murmurs the secret into Taron’s sweat-salty, bitten collarbone, lets himself say it. “And it was all I thought about all night. You, and wanting you.”

The aircon is banging, running full blast but it’s no match for the surge of racing heat as Richard kisses Taron again, their mouths meeting, ravenous, the slick embrace of Taron’s mouth all-consuming. Richard’s fingers grip at the nape of his neck, slipping through sweat there. Taron’s hands roam, grab at him, like he can’t get Richard close enough. Richard tears away and Taron says a truly pained “ _No—_ ” as he goes, flushed red and biting his lip. Richard pulls at Taron’s shirt, desperate to feel him, and both sets of their clumsy hands manage to tear it off.

“So badly, I want you. All the time,” Richard groans, his chest hot with the feeling. Every word tumbles out of him like clearing away rubble, letting chinks of sunlight shine through. “Looked at you all night, couldn’t stop, couldn’t breathe. Hated when you weren’t there. You touched me and sat with me and all I wanted was to have you, so badly, and so much.”

Richard’s babbling, pressing kisses and murmured words into Taron’s chest and stomach as he flattens him to the bed, tracing a path downwards. Laves a tongue against Taron’s belly button, nosing at hair there as his hands work at his zipper, and Taron’s stomach trembles under him. Richard unbuttons him, unzips him, jigs him out of his trousers, his cock bouncing and slipping free and Taron manages to shake only one leg out before Richard manhandles him, presses his thighs wide open and flat on the bed, Taron squirming, and sucks wet kisses around his length before taking him into his mouth.

“Oh fucking christ, oh fucking jesus christ,” Taron pants, sounding overwhelmed.

Richard gives him a hard suck, humming, and Taron’s limbs go liquid under his hands, his cock pulsing. Slowly, with tight rolling thrusts, Taron fucks into his mouth. Richard takes him deep, marveling at his own hunger, relishing Taron heaving shuddering breaths above him when he curls his tongue and hand around him in tandem, sets a nice rhythm for him.

The world shrinks to Taron digging half-moons into his shoulders, feeling the thick width of his cock in his mouth. For once tonight his mind is settled, blanketed with singular desire. Sucking Taron down and listening to him let out low, shocked grunts, murmur unintelligible praise from slack lips.

“Richard,” Taron breathes, his voice full, and sweeps a tender slow hand through his hair, his palm cradling his head. Richard’s heart seizes, absurdly, to be so sweetly cared for. Soothes his tongue lushly along the underside of Taron’s dick in response.

The sweet, trembling permissiveness of Taron all around him only drives him crazier, mouth wetting, speeding his pace. He flattens his hands up against his hip bones as Taron’s legs tighten around him, his skin hot everywhere. “Richard,” Taron repeats. His thighs are tensing. “You’re— I’m—”

Richard’s body is warm and relaxed and he swallows Taron down to the root, holding him in the clutch of his throat and streaming breath through his nose just to hear Taron choke around a breath. Taron’s hands grab desperately at his shoulders and he pulls off just enough to flatten his tongue against the head of his cock in his mouth and jack him tightly and Taron’s coming, flooding his mouth and stuttering his hips, shouting.

“Oh my god,” Taron breathes, once he gets his breath back. Richard sucks him clean, and then some, relishing the warm heft of his cock before pulling off, saliva-wet. Taron tips an incredulous thumb against Richard's swollen lips. 

Richard strokes a lazy hand over his side, their sweat mingling. He could fall asleep just as he is, head pillowed on Taron’s thigh. 

“Does that count,” Richard asks.

Taron’s chest heaves. “F’what?” 

“As a move.”

“Consider me fucking moved,” Taron says, and yanks him in for another sloppy kiss.

**_6:13 AM PST_ **

Sunrise; exactly; Richard’s phone tells him so when he blearily pokes at the screen. 

He doesn’t really remember falling asleep, although that’s probably a charitable word for it; passing out is more like it. He heaves himself up and his brain takes a moment to get the message, head spinning, and is confronted with the sight of Taron snoring in his bed, face down and heavy and sprawling. He's muscled, tempting; freckled neck and shoulders, his arse and thighs and the tender soles of his feet amusingly pale compared to his tanned limbs. One leg of his bottoms is still twisted around his ankle, from when Richard couldn’t wait to fully undress him before getting his cock in his mouth.

He looks altogether perfect.

Richard gets up, kicks his way out of his clothes violently, then gently tugs Taron’s pants off his ankle. Goes to the bathroom and drinks a glass and a half of water. Refills it. Gets one for Taron, too, and sets it on his nightstand, and passes out again.

**_7:46 AM PST_ **

Richard wakes up, chugs the whole glass of water, and tries to sleep again. 

**_9:22 AM PST_ **

The sun is, decidedly, up. Birds are chirping, the whole bit.

“Ow.”

“What,” Richard says, and it scrapes out of his throat.

“Everything. Ow,” Taron says weakly. Throws his arm over his eyes and shakes his head. “Why— Oh fuck, why.”

“Y’alright?”

Taron is silent for a worrying amount of time. He takes a long moment to speak, like he’s sorting through the words in his own mouth. “I feel awful. I really, really can’t believe that happened.”

Richard’s awake now, fully. 

Conscious enough to feel ice slowly drip in his veins, flushing away any surety he had last night. Surprised his brain is able to work this quickly, but not surprised by the conclusion: the first in the step of sheepish remorse from Taron. _Crazy night,_ and _I don’t even remember,_ and _well, I should really_. He’s heard it before, well rehearsed. Wouldn’t be the first guy who’s done a one-eighty on him.

“Ah,” Richard says hoarsely.

“I’m not that kind of person. I swear.”

“I understand,” Richard says emptily. He’s dizzy with the sudden sensation of falling, fast. Closes his eyes when he feels them start to prick. “We don’t need to talk about it.”

“I can’t believe I did that. I don’t know what was I thinking, I—”

“I get it,” Richard interrupts him, short. “Look, just—”

“ _No_ ,” Taron says fiercely, and the bed shifts. Richard opens his eyes to Taron crawling over him, the both of them still naked, Taron’s warm strong legs shifting against his own, eyes huge and boring into his. “How can I— what can I—”

Shocked: “What are you doing?” Instinctively, Richard’s hands come up to hold him. He squints. “What are you talking about.”

“We fell asleep before I could— I didn’t do anything for you.” Taron’s eyes are bloodshot and so, so sad. “Came my bloody brains out and didn’t return the favor.”

Richard’s eyes close again, squeezing shut under a deluge of affection. He laughs, once, and then can’t stop, shaking slightly, clutching Taron dearly. He wipes his eyes to see Taron only looks bewildered and more hurt, and it makes him giggle harder.

“It’s horribly rude. I feel absolutely terrible.”

Sheer relief makes Richard giddy, light-headed. “Thanks very much for that. I won’t hold it against you, how’s that.”

“Oh thank god.” Taron drops his head and moans into his chest, pressing his hot forehead there. “Because right now, I just— my brain hurts and it’s so bright I might die.”

Richard leans away, Taron still a mumbling dead weight on top of him, and fumbles in the bedside drawer. Clicks the little button on the remote and his blackout shades start to lower over the windows. So glad he put his foot down to the landlord about installing them.

“ _Ohhh_ , fuck, _yesss_ ,” Taron groans deeply, pornographically, and rolls over again as the shafts of sunlight shrink. Even through his foggy brain, the sound makes Richard’s dick twitch and it draws out a slow, sleepy smile. The dark is so welcome as the motors slow, and stop, and they sleep.

**_11:13 AM PST_ **

Taron grumbles as Richard sits on the bed to pull his socks on, rocking on the mattress. “Sorry—sorry,” Richard whispers, snatching up his phone. “Didn’t want to wake you. I’ll be right back.”

Taron props his head on his elbow, flutters the sheets around his naked body. “S’fine.” Rubs his face, takes a better look at Richard: fully dressed, about to pull on his shoes.

“Not gonna run off on me?” Taron’s eyes are bleary, his smile a little flimsy.

The gentle mood slip-slides into something heavier, more solemn. Richard’s face stills, his heart slowing. Leans down to kiss Taron long and soft, for lack of a better idea to soothe himself, to soothe him. To lay still and kiss in the darkness is just about all they can manage right now, but manage it they do. The whisper-soft movement of their mouths, the heat stuck to their skin from yesterday, the cool dark room.

“I never apologised. For leaving, like that.” Richard speaks against Taron’s mouth before he knows what to say. How to convey his regret, his worst self-preservation instincts hurting someone that he—

Someone he—

“You don’t have to,” Taron allows. “I know that you… It’s not...”

Richard kisses him again, lush, not wanting to hear excuses for himself from Taron’s mouth. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

**_11:59 AM PST_ **

The day is bright and harsh outside his door but Richard returns to see the shades lifted, letting the sun in. Taron emerges in a cloud of steam, twisting a huge fluffy towel around himself as Richard shuts the door.

“What’s the thread count on these? Incredible.” 

“I don’t know,” Richard admits. He holds paper bags aloft, throws them on the bed and faceplants next to them, bouncing slightly as he groans.

“You have nice things,” Taron comments idly, scratching a finger in his ear to flick out water.

“They’re yours,” Richard mumbles into the mattress.

He pushes a bag to Taron. “Breakfast sandwiches. Juice in the fridge, if you feel like being virtuous.”

Taron joins him on the bed, lays a wet kiss on the sunburned nape of his neck. It feels cool and soothing, a perfect little balm.

Richard points to the bag Taron is now cradling in his arms like a precious newborn. “Double cheese.”

“Like I like. You don’t miss a trick, do you.”

“Arguably.” Richard wipes a slow hand over his face.

“I would love to eat these. I would love to sleep it off for...” Taron contemplates. “...two more hours. And then,” he says earnestly, “I’d really love to blow you, since I didn’t get to last night.”

Richard pretends to seriously consider it. “I could be open to that.”

**_4:42 PM PST_ **

Taron blows him for the first time right there on his couch. They roused themselves from three more hours of sleep, outrageously idle, and threw on lounging clothes. Richard lent Taron some gym gear and put on some joggers himself, and Taron idly stroked him through them while they sat and half-watched The Blacklist. Nonchalant, just slid a lazy, warm hand over Richard’s crotch after the opening credits. Richard did nothing to guide or encourage him, just sat there with his chest rising and falling, legs gently parted as Taron played with his cock. Taron spent twenty minutes teasingly tracing the obvious shape of him, gently squeezing his balls, scratching over him with light fingers. His movements were assured, almost politely curious, and probably the hottest thing that had happened to Richard in a long time. Richard grew harder, rising fast under each new touch, eyes rolling back in his head, and by the end of the episode was panting and close to coming in his pants like he hadn’t since he was a teen.

Slowly, Taron’s hand moved, slipping under Richard’s shirt and scratching through the dark hair low on his stomach. Richard’s hips rose into the touch, trembling at the direct contact after so long. 

“Please,” Richard breathed.

Taron murmured, “Hmm.” Entirely unconcerned.

After another age Taron finally moved lower, sliding his hand beneath his waistband, tracing through the sweat-damp curls around the base of his cock and circling a loose hand there.

The few awkward strokes Taron gives him with his fist are enough to have his eyes fall closed, and it’s for that reason he misses Taron sliding off the couch, settling in between his knees on the floor.

His hips squirm as Taron peels his joggers off, entirely off, lifting his feet carefully from the cuffs. Taron runs hands back up his legs, slowly, and pushes Richard’s shirt up his torso. Kneels up to suck at the crease of his hip, mouth at his hip bone, and—keeps pushing at his shirt, rucking it up his chest.

Richard takes the hint and pulls it off, and Taron tips his head to look up at him, hand still running over his chest and stomach, breath coming faster. Unsteadily, Richard shifts forward towards him and sort of—stretches out, lounging, and he sees Taron’s eyes darken, his hand curl around the curve of Richard’s side before his lashes dip over flushed cheeks. 

Richard doesn’t know what it says about him that _he_ gets turned on knowing Taron is attracted to him, is shy about wanting to see his body, but he arches into Taron’s touch as pleasure races through him. He just breathes _yes_ as Taron nuzzles his face at his crotch, stubble rasping the skin there.

That leaves him entirely naked on his couch, with Taron dressed in his own clothes and sitting at his feet, as he tongues the head of Richard’s cock into his mouth with a blissful expression.

Taron alternates between swallowing the length of him at intervals and pulling off to kiss at the base of his cock, jacking him with a free hand and sending the other roaming over the planes of Richard’s body. Richard writhes gently so as not to disturb or dislodge Taron who’s exploring, sucking kisses everywhere, taking him in deep with long luxurious passes of his tongue once, twice before pulling off. Savouring each time it happens, Taron releasing him with a wet _pop_ and lingering over the head of his cock. Taron’s hands tease at the crease of Richard’s thighs, wrap around the backs of his knees, searching into sensitive thin-skinned places that make him shudder.

Slowly, Taron relaxes into tight controlled bobs of his head, finding a pace, enjoying the wet thrust of Richard’s cock with long satisfied noises. Richard holds him, traces a thumb over his cheek, feeling precisely where he’s locked into the sweet rhythmic slide of his mouth. Taron finally pulls off, tracing the tip of his tongue at Richard’s very cockhead, and Richard is sure his neck will hurt from throwing his head back against the cushion.

Taron takes him in a tight fist, strokes him so fast his hand flies. “Come on.” His voice low and heavy, washing over Richard, almost soothing compared to the rapid pace he’s keeping. 

“Want to feel you,” Taron murmurs, lips and chin slick, all sloppy clothes, voice hoarse. It overwhelms Richard and he surges at that, and it’s over, jolting once in his hand before coming supernova-hot and fast into Taron’s eager mouth as he sucks him down.

“Jesus, that’s—” Richard gasps when he comes down, blinking. Taron breathes roughly as he kneels; Richard sees him thrusting against his hand, shoving, working furiously and biting his lip.

Richard can’t have that. He quickly pulls Taron up who goes, limbs unfolding and not quite working, and Richard eases him up to straddle his lap, snug. Pulls out his dripping cock as Taron spasms, stroking him from base to tip with a wide, sure hand. Taron braces himself against his shoulders, like he’s about to fall.

“Richard, I—” Hips rolling, almost thrashing astride him. Richard gives him short tight strokes, pulling at the head of his cock over and over.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, as Taron thrusts and shudders and comes over him, laying against his chest, spent.

**_6:39 PM PST_ **

The sun hangs heavy, low and lingering in the sky. They’ve burned the whole day, hungover, indolent, smelling like sleep-sweat and each other. 

“It’s getting late.” Taron stretches out on the couch, stifling a yawn. “Probably time to get back to mine.”

Richard’s busying himself with tidying the living room, straightening coasters he hasn’t used in weeks. “You could.” 

Tarons hums. “I could.” Puts down the remote.

Richard moves his shoulders in an innocent sort of way. “Or you could. Stay.”

“I could,” Taron says. Guile in his voice.

Richard sighs, a deep exhaustive sigh. Not from exasperation, but a genuine, floating release. Goes to Taron on the couch, crawling over him as Taron grins, flattening him into the couch with a _whuff_.

“I want you. To stay,” Richard whispers. No longer a secret.

“Okay,” Taron responds, stroking his hair, and it’s as easy as that.


End file.
